Chapter V (1)

A shout! ’tis the neighbors returning!
Now, Mingos, in terror fall back!
It is well that your sinews are lusty,
And well that no vigor ye lack;
He is best who in motion is fleetest
When the white man is out on his track.

Oh, then fell around them a terror;
Oh, then how the enemy ran;
For each hunter, in chosen position,
With coolness of vengeance began
To take a good aim with his rifle,
And send a sure shot to his man.

Oh, then there was racing and chasing,
And fastly they hurried away;
They feared at those husbands and fathers,
And dared not stand boldly at bay;
And in front of his men, Kiskepila
Ran slightly the fastest they say.

And well for the lives of the wretches
They fly from the brunt of the fight;
And well for their lives that around them
Are falling the shadows of night;
For life is in distance and darkness,
And death in the nearness and light.

But deep was the woe of the hunters,
And dark was the cloud o’er their life;
For some had been riven of children,
And some of both children and wife;
And woe to the barbarous Mingo,
If either should meet him in strife.

John Lewis said, calmly and coldly,
When gazing that eve on the slain—
“We will bury our dead on the morrow,
But let these red rascals remain;
And the wandering wolves and the buzzards
Will not of our kindness complain.”

Years after, when men called John Lewis
As brave as a brave man could be,
He lit him his pipe made of corn-cob,
And drawing a draught long and free—
“The red rascals kept me quite busy
With pulling the trigger,” said he.

“And though I got slightly the better
Of insolent foes in the strife,
I may as well own that my triumph
Was due unto Maggie, my wife;
For had she not loaded expertly,
The Mingos had reft us of life.

“And through all that terrible combat
She never was scared at the din;
But carefully loaded each rifle,
And prophesied that we would win—
Yet why should she tremble? her fathers
Were the terrible lords of Loch Linn.”

John Lewis commanded the fortress;
John Lewis was army as well;
John Lewis was master of ordnance;
John Lewis he fought as I tell;
And, gathered long since to his fathers,
John Lewis lies low in the dell.

But a braver old man, or a better,
Was never yet known to exist;
Not even in olden Augusta,
Where good men who died were not missed,
For the very particular reason—
Good men then were plenty, I wist.

_THE FIRST BLOOD DRAWN._

In the spring of 1775, General Gage, commanding the royal troops in
Boston, determined to seize the arms and stores which the colonists
had gathered at Concord. At midnight, on the eighteenth of April,
he sent eight hundred men, grenadiers and light infantry, under
Lieutenant-colonel Smith and Major Pitcairn, for that purpose. They
landed quietly at Phipps’s Farm, and to insure secrecy arrested all
they met on the march. General Warren, however, knew of it, and
sent Paul Revere with the news to John Hancock and Samuel Adams,
both of whom were at Clark’s House, in Lexington. Revere spread
the alarm. By two o’clock in the morning a company of minute-men
met on the green at Lexington, and after forming were dismissed,
with orders to re-assemble on call. In the mean while the ringing
of bells and firing of guns told the British that their movements
were known. Smith detached the greater part of his force, under
Pitcairn, with orders to push on to Concord. As they approached
Lexington they came upon the minute-men, who had hastily turned
out again. A pause ensued, both parties hesitating. Then Pitcairn
called on them to disperse. Not being obeyed, he moved his troops,
and a few random shots having been exchanged, gave the order to
fire. Four of the minute-men fell at the volley, and the rest
dispersed. As the British fired again, while the Americans were
retreating, some shots were returned. Four of the Americans were
killed, and three of the British were wounded. Joined by Smith and
his men, the British pushed on to Concord.

But the country was now thoroughly aroused. A strong party of
militia, though less in force than the enemy, had been gathered
under the command of Colonel Barrett, an old soldier, who had
served with Amherst and Abercrombie. Under his direction most of
the stores were removed to a place of safety. At seven in the
morning the British arrived at the place, and found two companies
of militia on the Common. These retreated to some high ground
about a mile back. The enemy then occupied the town, secured the
bridges, destroyed what stores had been left, and broke off the
trunnions of three 24-pound cannon. They also fired the town.
Meanwhile the forces of the Americans increased to four companies.
After consultation, Major Buttrick was sent with a detachment to
attack the enemy at the North Bridge. Here a fight ensued. Two
Americans and three British were killed, and several on both sides
were wounded. The British detachment retreated, and the Americans
took the bridge. The enemy, seeing Americans continually arriving,
were alarmed, and Smith ordered a speedy return to Boston, throwing
out flanking parties on the march. But it seemed as though armed
men sprang from every house and barn, or were lurking behind
every rock and tree. Shots came from every quarter, and were
mostly fatal. Charges had no effect. Driven from one point, fresh
assailants came from another. It seemed as though the entire
detachment would be slain or captured.

]

Gage received word of the swarming of the minute-men and the peril
of his troops, and sent a brigade, with light artillery, under
Lord Percy, to reinforce Smith. This reached within a half mile of
Lexington at three o’clock in the afternoon, and forming a hollow
square around the wearied soldiers, allowed them a short time for
rest and refreshment. Then the whole body began its return march,
destroying houses and doing other mischief on the way. The country
was now up, the provincial troops came from all quarters, and it
was a general running engagement. At Prospect Hill there was a
sharp fight. Percy seemed in danger of being cut off; but another
and stronger reinforcement arriving, he was enabled to reach Boston.

_THE FIGHT AT LEXINGTON._

Tugged the patient, panting horses, as the coulter keen and thorough,
By the careful farmer guided, cut the deep and even furrow;
Soon the mellow mould in ridges, straightly pointing as an arrow,
Lay to wait the bitter vexing of the fierce, remorseless harrow—
Lay impatient for the seeding, for the growing and the reaping,
All the richer and the readier for the quiet winter-sleeping.

At his loom the pallid weaver, with his feet upon the treadles,
Watched the threads alternate rising, with the lifting of the heddles—
Not admiring that, so swiftly, at his eager fingers’ urging,
Flew the bobbin-loaded shuttle ’twixt the filaments diverging;
Only labor dull and cheerless in the work before him seeing,
As the warp and woof uniting brought the figures into being.

Roared the fire before the bellows; glowed the forge’s dazzling crater;
Rang the hammers on the anvil, both the lesser and the greater;
Fell the sparks around the smithy, keeping rhythm to the clamor,
To the ponderous blows, and clanging of each unrelenting hammer;
While the diamonds of labor, from the curse of Adam borrowed,
Glittered in a crown of honor on each iron-beater’s forehead.

Through the air there came a whisper, deepening quickly into thunder,
How the deed was done that morning that would rend the realm asunder;
How at Lexington the Briton mingled causeless crime with folly,
And a king endangered empire by an ill-considered volley.
Then each heart beat quick for vengeance, as the anger-stirring story
Told of brethren and of neighbors lying corses stiff and gory.

Stops the plough and sleeps the shuttle, stills the blacksmith’s noisy hammer,
Come the farmer, smith, and weaver, with a wrath too deep for clamor;
But their fiercely purposed doing every glance they give avouches,
As they handle rusty firelocks, powder-horns, and bullet-pouches;
As they hurry from the workshops, from the fields, and from the forges,
Venting curses deep and bitter on the latest of the Georges.

Matrons gather at the portals—some with children round them grouping,
Some are filled with exultation, some are sad of soul and drooping—
Gazing at our hasty levies as they march unskilled but steady,
Or prepare their long-kept firelocks, for the combat making ready—
Mingling smiles with tears, and praying for our men and those who lead them,
That the gracious Lord of battles to a triumph sure may speed them.

I was but a beardless stripling on that chilly April morning,
When the church-bells backward ringing, to the minute-men gave warning;
But I seized my father’s weapons—he was dead who one time bore them—
And I swore to use them stoutly, or to nevermore restore them;
Bade farewell to sister, mother, and to one than either dearer,
Then departed as the firing told of red-coats drawing nearer.

On the Britons came from Concord—’twas a name of mocking omen;
Concord nevermore existed ’twixt our people and the foemen—
On they came in haste from Concord, where a few had stood to fight them,
Where they failed to conquer Buttrick, who had stormed the bridge despite them;
On they came, the tools of tyrants, ’mid a people who abhorred them;
They had done their master’s bidding, and we purposed to reward them.

We, at Meriam’s Corner posted, heard the fifing and the drumming
In the distance creeping onward, which prepared us for their coming;
Soon we saw the lines of scarlet, their advance to music timing,
When our captain quickly bade us pick our flints and freshen priming.
There our little band of freemen, couched in silent ambush lying,
Watched the forces, full eight hundred, as they came with colors flying.

’Twas a goodly sight to see them; but we heeded not its splendor,
For we felt their martial bearing hate within our hearts engender,
Kindling fire within our spirits, though our eyes a moment watered,
As we thought on Moore and Hadley, and their brave companions slaughtered;
And we swore to deadly vengeance for the fallen to devote them,
And our rage grew hotter, hotter, as our well-aimed bullets smote them.

Then, in overpowering numbers, charging bayonet, came their flankers;
We were driven as the ships are, by a tempest, from their anchors.
But we loaded while retreating, and, regaining other shelter,
Saw their proudest on the highway in their life’s blood fall and welter;
Saw them fall, or dead or wounded, at our fire so quick and deadly,
While the dusty road was moistened with the torrent raining redly.

From behind the mounds and fences poured the bullets thickly, fastly;
From ravines and clumps of coppice leaped destruction grim and ghastly;
All around our leaguers hurried, coming hither, going thither,
Yet, when charged on by their forces, disappearing, none knew whither;
Buzzed around the hornets ever, newer swarms each moment springing,
Breaking, rising, and returning, yet continually stinging.

When to Hardy’s Hill their weary, waxing-fainter footsteps brought them,
There again the stout Provincials brought the wolves to bay and fought them;
And though often backward beaten, still returned the foe to follow,
Making forts of every hill-top, and redoubts of every hollow.
Hunters came from every farm-house, joining eagerly to chase them—
They had boasted far too often that we ne’er would dare to face them.

How they staggered, how they trembled, how they panted at pursuing,
How they hurried broken columns that had marched to their undoing;
How their stout commander, wounded, urged along his frightened forces,
That had marked their fearful progress by their comrades’ bloody corses;
How they rallied, how they faltered, how in vain returned our firing,
While we hung upon their footsteps with a zealousness untiring.

With nine hundred came Lord Percy, sent by startled Gage to meet them,
And he scoffed at those who suffered such a horde of boors to beat them;
But his scorn was changed to anger, when on front and flank were falling,
From the fences, walls, and roadside, drifts of leaden hail appalling;
And his picked and chosen soldiers, who had never shrunk in battle,
Hurried quicker in their panic when they heard the firelocks rattle.

Tell it not in Gath, Lord Percy, never Ascalon let hear it,
That you fled from those you taunted as devoid of force and spirit;
That the blacksmith, weaver, farmer, leaving forging, weaving, tillage,
Fully paid with coin of bullets base marauders for their pillage;
They, you said, would fly in terror, Britons and their bayonets shunning;
But the loudest of the boasters proved the foremost in the running.

Then round Prospect Hill they hurried, where we followed and assailed them;
They had stout and tireless muscles, or their limbs had surely failed them;
Stood abashed the bitter Tories, as the women loudly wondered
That a crowd of scurvy rebels chased to hold eleven hundred—
Chased to hold eleven hundred, grenadiers both light and heavy,
Leading Percy, of the Border, on a chase surpassing Chevy.

Into Boston marched their forces, musket-barrels brightly gleaming,
Colors flying, sabres flashing, drums were beating, fifes were screaming.
Not a word about their journey; from the general to the drummer,
Did you ask about their doings, than a statue each was dumber;
But the wounded in their litters, lying pallid, weak, and gory,
With a language clear and certain told the sanguinary story.

’Twas a dark and bloody lesson; it was bloody work to teach it;
But when sits on high Oppression, soaring fire alone can reach it.
Though but raw and rude Provincials, we were freemen, and contending
For the rights our fathers gave us, and a country worth defending;
And when foul invaders threaten wrong to hearthstone and to altar,
Shame were on the freeman’s manhood should he either fail or falter.

On the day the fight that followed, neighbor met and talked with neighbor;
First the few who fell they buried, then returned to daily labor.
Glowed the fire within the forges, ran the ploughshare down the furrow,
Clicked the bobbin-loaded shuttle—both our fight and toil were thorough;
If we labored in the battle, or the shop, or forge, or fallow,
Still there came an honest purpose, casting round our deeds a halo.

Though they strove again, these minions of Germaine and North and Gower,
They could never make the weakest of our band before them cower;
Neither England’s bribes nor soldiers, force of arms nor titles splendid,
Could deprive of what our fathers left as rights to be defended.
And the flame from Concord, spreading, kindled kindred conflagrations,
Till the Colonies United took their place among the nations.

_BOMBARDMENT OF FORT SULLIVAN._

The Provincial Congress of South Carolina, in 1775, appointed a
Committee of Safety to sit during its own recess, and to this
it delegated full power. The Committee fitted out a vessel,
which captured an English sloop, laden with powder, lying at
St. Augustine. The royal governor of the State sent couriers to
intercept the vessel, but they failed. The powder was brought to
Charleston, and part of it was used by Arnold in the siege of
Quebec. Later in the year Colonel Moultrie took possession of a
small fort standing on Sullivan’s Island, in Charleston Harbor. The
governor fled to the frigate _Tamar_, and the Committee of Safety
took charge of affairs. Fort Johnson, on James’s Island, was seized
and armed. Guns were mounted on Haddrell’s Point, and a fascine
battery made on Sullivan’s Island. Between these two the _Tamar_
and her consort were obliged to leave the harbor. Colonel Moultrie
was now ordered to build a strong fort on Sullivan’s Island, and
over three hundred guns were mounted on the various fortifications.
Colonel Gadsden was placed in command, and every preparation made
for a vigorous defence.

The Continental Congress knew that a combined naval and land
attack would be made on Charleston; and in April Brigadier-general
Armstrong was sent there to take command, but was superseded, on
the fourth of June, by Major-general Charles Lee, who had been sent
by Washington. He worked hard for the defence of the city, and was
supported with ardor and enthusiasm by the people. Troops flocked
in until there were between five and six thousand men in arms,
including the Northern troops that had come with Armstrong and
Lee. They were disposed at Fort Johnson, on James’s Island, under
Gadsden; a battery on Sullivan’s Island, under Thomson; in the fort
on the same island, under Moultrie; and at Haddrell’s Point, under
Lee.

The British arrived on the fourth of June, but it was not until
the twenty-eighth that they were ready to attack. During the
interval they had constructed batteries on Long Island, to silence
that of Thomson on Sullivan’s Island and cover the landing of the
storming-party of Clinton’s troops.

On the morning of the twenty-eighth of June the attack began. The
incidents are faithfully given in the ballad, and to that the
reader is referred.

_SULLIVAN’S ISLAND._

Stout Sir Henry Clinton spoke—
“It is time the power awoke
That upholds in these dominions
Royal right;
Set all sail, and southward steer,
And, instead of idling here,
Crush these rebel Carolinians
Who have dared to beard our might.”

Of his coming well we knew—
Far and wide the story flew,
And the many tongues of rumor
Swelled his force;
But we scorned his gathered might,
And, relying on the right,
Bade the braggart let his humor
For a battle take its course.

Neither idle nor dismayed,
As we watched the coming shade
Of the murky cloud that hovered
On our coast;
From the country far and near,
In we called the volunteer,
Till the ground around was covered
With the trampling of our host.

In their homespun garb arrayed,
Sturdy farmers to our aid
Came, as to a bridal lightly
Come the guests;
Leaving crops and kine and lands,
Trusty weapons in their hands,
And the fire of courage brightly
Burning in their manly breasts.

[From an English Print.]]

From the hills the hunters came—
Having dealt with meaner game,
Much they longed to meet the lions
Of the isles;
And ’twas pleasant there to see
With what stately step, and free,
Strode those restless-eyed Orions
Past our better-ordered files.

There were soldiers from the North,
Hailed as brothers by the swarth,
Keen, chivalric Carolinians
At their side—
Ah, may never discord’s fires,
Sons of heart-united sires
Who together fought the minions
Of a tyrant-king, divide!

Came the owner of the soil,
The mechanic from his toil,
And the student from the college—
Equal each;
They had gathered there to show
To the proud and cruel foe,
Who had come to court the knowledge,
What a people’s wrath could teach.

Watching Clinton, day by day,
From his vessels in the bay,
On Long Island beach debarking
Grenadiers,
In the fort at Sullivan’s isle,
With a grim and meaning smile,
Every scarlet soldier marking,
Stood our ready cannoneers.

Of palmetto logs and sand,
On a stretch of barren land,
Stands that rude but strong obstruction,
Keeping guard;
’Tis the shelter of the town—
They must take or break it down,
They must sweep it to destruction,
Or their farther path is barred.

’Twas but weak they thought to shield;
They were sure it soon would yield;
They had guns afloat before it,
Ten to one;
Yet long time their vessels lay
Idly rocking in the bay,
While the flag that floated o’er it
Spread its colors in the sun.

But at length toward the noon
Of the twenty-eighth of June,
We observed their force in motion
On the shore;
At the hour of half-past nine
Saw their frigates form in line,
Heard the krakens of the ocean
Ope their mighty jaws and roar.

On the decks we saw them stand,
Lighted matches held in hand,
Brawny sailors, stripped and ready
For the word;
Crawling to the royal’s head,
Saw the signal rise and spread;
And the order to be steady
To the waiting crews we heard.

Then the iron balls and fire,
From the lips of cannon dire,
In a blazing torrent pouring,
Roaring came;
And each dun and rolling cloud
That arose the ships to shroud,
Seemed a mist continual soaring
From some cataract of flame.

Moultrie eyed the _Bristol_ then—
She was foremost of the ten—
And these words, his eyes upon her,
Left his lips:
“Let them not esteem you boors;
Show that gentle blood of yours;
Pay the Admiral due honor,
And the line-of-battle ships.”

Back our balls in answer flew,
Piercing plank and timbers through,
Till the foe began to wonder
At our might;
While we laughed to hear the roar
Flung by Echo from the shore;
While we shouted to the thunder
Grandly pealing through the fight.

From Long Island Clinton came,
To surmount the wall of flame
That was built by Thomson’s rangers
On the east;
But he found a banquet spread
Where, with open hand and red,
Dangers bade the hostile strangers
Bloody welcome to the feast.

Moved their boats, with soldiers filled,
Rowed by seamen picked and skilled,
O’er the channel, urging proudly
To attack;
Stern and silently they moved,
As became their courage proved,
Though the rangers’ rifles, loudly
Speaking peril, warned them back.

Long the barges headway held,
By the sinewy arms impelled
Of the dauntless British seamen,
Through the foam;
Through the leaden death that came,
Borne upon the wings of flame,
From the rifled guns of freemen
Fighting fiercely for their home.

One by one the rowers dropped;
Then their onward course was stopped—
Death stood ready for the daring
At the oar;
Though in scorn they came at first,
When the storm upon them burst
They returned with humbler bearing
To the safe and farther shore.

Then the bluff Sir Peter cried,
“Though they lower Clinton’s pride,
And with front as stern as iron
Are arrayed,
There’s a joint within their mail—
To their western front shall sail
The _Actæon_, _Sphynx_, and _Siren_,
And the fortress enfilade.”

Oh, the admiral was too free
With his gallant frigates three!
It were better had he kept them
As they were;
For the Middle Shoal they found,
Where they snugly lay aground,
While so bloodily we swept them
With our iron besoms there.

They were taught full soon aright
That the bravest man in flight
May, when perils dire environ,
Safety find:
Soon, by aid of sail and sweep,
From the shoal unto the deep

They restored the _Sphynx_ and _Siren_:
But the other stayed behind.

Gnawed the admiral his lip;
Yet the combat from his ship
Coolly, ’mid our fire so deadly,
Guided he,
Though the dying and the dead
On the decks around were spread,
And the blood was running redly
From the scuppers to the sea.

On that bloody deck he stood,
While, with voices deep and rude,
Thrice a hundred cannons thundered
For the King;
And our thirty cannon black
Growled their terrible answer back,
Till the souls from bodies sundered
Of three hundred men took wing.

All the while the battle through
Waved our crescent flag of blue,
Till the staff was cut asunder
By a ball;
And the foemen raised a cheer,
Like the crow of chanticleer,
Shrilly sounding through the thunder
As they saw the color fall.

On the ramparts Jasper stood,
In his hands that banner good,
’Mid the balls that flew incessant
O’er the brine;
To a sponge-staff firmly tied
Once again it floated wide,
Flashing to the sun the crescent
Of the Carolina line.

Rang the stirring cheer on cheer
For our hero void of fear,
For our young and gallant sergeant
Firm and bold;
And we swore our bones should bleach
On that barren, sandy beach,
Ere that flag with crescent argent
Should be wrested from our hold.

So we fought till set of sun,
When their vessels, one by one,
Slackened fire, and, anchor weighing,
Shaped a course;
To Five Fathom Hole they fled
With their dying and their dead,
In their battered hulls displaying
How our skill surpassed their force.

Through the night we never slept—
Ceaseless watch and ward we kept,
With the port-fire steady burning
At each gun;
And the vessels of our foes
We beheld when dawn arose—
Eastwardly our glances turning—
Lie between us and the sun.

Yet not all escaped that day:
The _Actæon_ frigate lay
At the shoal whereon she grounded
Hours before;
And her vexed and angry crew,
As our shot at her we threw,
And her sides of oak we pounded,
Left the guns and took the oar.

We beheld them from the deck
Of her rent and tattered wreck,
Like the rats from garner burning,
Fastly flee;
Ah, no more before the gale
Will that gallant vessel sail;
Nevermore, the billows spurning,
Wave her white wings o’er the sea!

Ere they fled, with spiteful ire
They devoted her to fire,
With her red-cross ensign proudly
Floating free;
But we boarded with a crew,
Down the flying colors drew,
While our cheers rang long and loudly
To the fortress from the sea.

Then her small-arms all we took,
And her bell and signal-book;
Fired her cannon thrice, in honor
Of the day;
Bore her colors ensign down,
In defiance of the crown;
And to heap more scorn upon her,
Jeering, trailed them o’er the bay.

Then we fired her as before,
And, exulting, from the shore
Saw the flaming serpents creeping
Up the shrouds;
Saw them dance upon the deck,
Saw them lick and gnaw the wreck,
Saw them to the mast-heads leaping
Through the rolling, smoking clouds.

Then, while gleamed the sparks like stars,
Snapped and fell the blazing spars,
While the fire was moaning dirges,
Came a roar;
Upward sprang a pillared flame,
And to fragments rent her frame,
With a shock that drove the surges,
White with terror, to the shore.

Time since then has travelled on:
Moultrie, Thomson, Jasper, gone!
Few survive who shared the glory
Of the scene;
But their names in light shall blaze
To the very latter days,
And our sons, in song and story,
Keep their memory ever green.

_A TURN OF THE TIDE._

During the latter part of 1776, affairs looked gloomy for the new
Confederacy of the States. The affair at White Plains, the fall of
Fort Washington, and the evacuation of Fort Lee, followed by the
retreat across New Jersey, had reduced the forces of Washington
to less than three thousand men. The enemy occupied Newark, New
Brunswick, Princeton, Trenton, and Bordentown. They were thus
scattered in detachments on a long line. When Washington crossed
the river Delaware—which he did after securing every available boat
on the shore—his force had dwindled to twenty-two hundred men; and
this number was still further reduced by the expiration of the term
of enlistment of a large portion. Congress had fled to Baltimore,
and Cornwallis was about to seize Philadelphia.

Congress now ordered increased pay to the troops, with liberal
bounties, and by indefatigable exertions the ranks began to fill
again. On the twenty-fourth of December, Washington’s army amounted
to over ten thousand men, of which about half were effective.
With these he determined to make a simultaneous attack upon the
detached British posts on the New Jersey side. The main force, led
by Washington in person, was to cross at M’Conkey’s Ferry, and fall
upon the Hessians, under Rahl, at Trenton. Cadwallader was to cross
near Bristol, and Ewing below Trenton Falls, to attack Mount Holly,
Black Horse, Bordentown, and Burlington. He was aided unexpectedly
by General Putnam, who commanded at Philadelphia. Learning of the
design to attack Trenton, Putnam sent a small body of militia,
under Colonel Griffin, to Mount Holly, where he was not to fight,
but to retreat before the enemy. Count Donop, at Bordentown, fell
into the trap, followed Griffin, and was not at hand to support
Rahl at the critical moment. Neither Ewing nor Cadwallader could
effect a crossing. The latter got a battalion of foot over the
river, but not being able to cross the artillery, these had to
return.

The incidents of the surprise are correctly given in the ballad.
The loss of the Americans was only four—two frozen to death and
two killed in battle. The loss of the Hessians amounted to six
officers and over twenty men killed, and twenty-three officers and
eight hundred and eighty-six privates made prisoners. Six brass
field-pieces, four colors, and a thousand stand of arms were also
taken.

The effect of this movement was inspiriting, and gave great hope
and encouragement to the Americans. The English commander, who
had thought the war was at an end, now learned that his task had
begun again. Numbers of Americans whose term of service had expired
re-enlisted, and the militia were eager to turn out whenever their
services were demanded.

_THE SURPRISE AT TRENTON._

SCENE.—A Pennsylvania farm-house on the Delaware. TIME.—December 25, 1836. REUBEN COMFORT _loquitur_.

Ruth, help Friend English to a chair. Thee’s welcome. Thee would know
The ferry where they crossed the stream, now sixty years ago,
To take the Hessians under Rahl? There’s nothing now to see.
There had been that to stir thee much, had thee been there with me:
For I, though but a stripling then, trained ever to abhor
All force and strife, that raging flood crossed with the men of war.

Thee stares! Thee doubtless wonders much a Friend should have to say
That his communication had been more than yea or nay;
That he had been in battle where his fellow-men were slain,
And, favored to escape all harm, came back in peace again.
’Twas very wrong to violate peace principles of Friends.
Well, well! The Meeting dealt with me, and there the matter ends.

Tell thee about it? Yes, although ’twas little of a fight.
Abner, thee put up this friend’s beast; he’ll tarry here to-night.
And thee must take into thee mind, those who in battle stand
Know little of what’s going on, save just on either hand;
And much of my recital thee will find much better told
In some well-written chronicle made in the days of old.

But I could tell thee all about the crossing ere the day,
The marching up to Birmingham, the silence by the way,
The rushing into Trenton with friend Sullivan and those;
And how when first we saw the foe a mighty shouting rose;
And I can tell thee something more which no one else could do—
Can name to thee the very man who Rahl the Hessian slew.

Thee knows where Newbold’s Island stands? Thee ought. Yes, that is true;
The English Farm has nigh it stood since sixteen-eighty-two.
Thee knows the old stone farm-house looking out upon the tide
Slantwise across the river on the Pennsylvany side?
In that house I was born and bred, and lived till twenty-one,
As all the Comforts had for years, from father unto son.

That year my father rode up here and bought this farm for me;
For Issachar he lived at home, and we could not agree.
He leaned too much on his birthright, so father to us said,
“Two farms had better hold ye!” and he got me this instead;
And I came here to work it. ’Twas a goodly start in life:
The place had been well tilled, and all I needed was a wife.

I went among the women folk, as usual with a youth,
And soon I fell in love with one, Friend Scudder’s daughter, Ruth;
And straightway found the damsel moved, and in her spirit free
Before the Friends in meeting to stand up along with me.
And we would be united, if our people’s minds were clear,
On Fourth-day of the first week of the First-month in next year.

The weeks that came were pleasant weeks, the world was all in tune;
The stars were always bright at night, the month was fair as June.
Dear Ruth! whose eyes were mild as doves’, whose tones were sweet as birds’—
More pleasant was the maid to me than gold or land or herds.
Sweet Ruth! at eighty-two my ears find music in the name;
But human bliss must reach its end, and bleak December came.

Meanwhile the people round us fought, the country was one camp;
Sometimes, far in the dead of night, I’d hear the soldiers’ tramp.
The Friends were loyal? Nay, not all; if loyalty be such
As favors fraud and winks at wrong, then few were loyal—much;
Yet few felt free to go to war—they dwelt upon the word
Which says that they who take the sword shall perish by the sword.

It was a chilly morning when, foreboding naught of harm,
I crossed the river in my skiff, and sought the Scudder farm:
About the hour when Ruth would have her household work all through,
And ready be to take a walk, the scene around to view.
The trees were leafless, and the ground was covered half with snow;
But what is that to human hearts with youth and love aglow!

We wandered up and down the road like children, hand in hand,
And talked about the future, and the life before us planned;
But while we spake the sound of hoofs upon the ground we heard—
Somehow my spirit to its depth by that same sound was stirred;
And closer Ruth towards me drew that slender form of hers,
As came the clanking of a sword whose scabbard clinked with spurs.

We turned. A horseman was at hand, in gay apparel clad,
Upon his dark-green coat much braid and golden lace he had;
A man of goodly presence. He gazed curiously at each,
Then spake (thee knows we understand round here the German speech):
“Ah! Sie ist deine Schwester, Mann?”—at which I shook my head.
“So! deine Frau vielleicht? ’ne Braut! Sehr gut! Ein Schmatz!” he said.

“There, that will do, friend officer,” in wrath was my reply;
“I feel not free, when thus thee speaks, to stand in silence by.
Pray go thy ways; we’re peaceful folk, nor meddle thee nor thine.”
“Dat’s zafe,” he said, “in dimes like dese; gleichwohl der Kuss ist mein!”
With that he bent to where she stood; but ere her lips he found,
I dragged him headlong from his horse, and hurled him to the ground.

He rose, and straightway drew his sword, and angrily he glared;
I thought my hour of death had come when he his weapon bared.
The veins upon his forehead swelled, and then his face grew white;
With rage that gave him double strength he raised the blade to smite.
And as it rose I heard a scream; Ruth rushed between us twain;
Fell terribly the keen-edged steel: my pretty dove was slain.

He shrank in horror; from his face all trace of color fled,
While I sank down upon my knees beside the pulseless dead;
And loud I cried, “A deed is thine which even fiends abhor!
Her soul shall rise and thine shall sink, thou bloody wolf of war!”
“Ach Gott!” he said, and spake no more; then, mounting on his steed,
Struck deep the rowels in its flanks, and rode in headlong speed.

Ruth did not on the instant die, and, ere she breathed her last,
Soft cradled in my loving arms, her life-blood flowing fast,
There went a shudder through her frame, a glazing of the eye,
And then a lighting of her face, a glance at earth and sky.
So tenderly she murmured, with a loving look to me,
“Reuben! ’tis hard in youth to die, but sweet to die for thee?”

We placed her in Friends’ burying-ground; and, though we marked it not,
I could take thee to it in the night, so well I know the spot.
At home for many hours I lay—a stupor on me came;
The only sound that roused me up was mention of her name.
And then Friend Scudder and his wife, who stood beside me, said,
“Who does his living duty pays most honor to the dead.”

Three weeks had passed; it was the night at close of Christmas-day—
So the world’s people name it—when, in all of war’s array,
But silently and cautiously, a force at nightfall came
And seized what few bateaux there were; they took my skiff the same.
And then I knew the wrath of God was gathering round to fall
Upon the hireling Hessian force, and its commander, Rahl.

The spirit moved within me then; I sought out him who led
The soldiers in the battle, and thus to the man I said,
“Friend Washington, although thee knows that Friends are men of peace,
Who pray continual night and day this bloody strife may cease,
Yet it is given unto me that I should go this night
And cross the stream with these thy friends to guide their steps aright.”

The general looked at me well pleased. “You meet us in our need;
The way is plain, but such a night our footsteps might mislead.
Get him a musket, Baylor.” But I quickly answered “Nay!
The carnal weapon suits me not; I have a better stay.
Unarmed I go before thy men when once the stream be crossed,
And, though the air be black with storm, our path shall not be lost.”

They then embarked the soldiers, ’mid the blinding snow and hail;
They struggled with the driven ice, the current, and the gale;
And much I marvelled, as I gazed upon the piteous sight,
What men endure when in a cause that they consider right;
For nearly all were poorly clad to meet the biting air:
Some were half naked in the ranks, and some with feet all bare.

And back and forth the boats were sent upon the watery way,
So long that when we all had crossed the sky was tinged with grey.
Right on we marched to Birmingham, a moment there made stand,
Then broke in two divisions which filed off on either hand.
One half, with Washington and Greene, the old Scotch highway chose;
The other took the river road—I went ahead of those.

Before we parted, some one came and said to Washington,
“The priming in the guns is wet; what now is to be done?”
“Then let them use the bayonet!” was his answer to the man;
At which a hum of confidence among the soldiers ran.
All filled with silent, stern resolve, they strode so proudly then,
I knew they would before the foe acquit themselves like men.

The sun arose, and still we marched, I somewhat in advance,
A voice cried, “Wer da? Halt!” I saw a musket-barrel glance.
“A friend,” I answered. “Freund von wem?” “A friend to Washington!”
The sentry fired and missed, and ran and cast away his gun;
For now behind me, pressing on, he saw our troops were near,
And in the distance on our left I heard Greene’s forces cheer.

“Move faster there!” cried Sullivan, “or Greene will get ahead.
Press on and use your steel, my men; we have no need of lead.”
And on they rushed, I with the rest; through Water Street we swept,
While from a few upon our front some scattered bullets leapt.
Their outguard fled in sore affright, and one there dying lay,
His loaded musket by his side—his work was done that day.

I saw the Hessian soldiers that were forming into rank;
I saw their mounted officers—could hear the scabbards clank,
As hither, thither, riding round, they drove their men in line;
And through them all, from each to each, went eager glance of mine,
Till in their very centre there I saw one on his horse,
His orders coolly giving, the commander of their force.

I knew him! I could not forget! ’Twas he whose angry blow
Had smote my darling to the death; he should not ’scape me so.
I cast my plain coat to the ground. “Quaker, lie there!” said I.
“Yon is the son of Amalek! I’ll smite him hip and thigh!”
And from the ground that musket caught, and o’er its barrel drew
A bead as fine as a needle’s point: the ball his breast went through.

The musket dropped from out my hands—a fellow man I’d slain;
My heart stood still, but presently I was myself again.
I leaned against a tree. A sound of cannon smote my ear,
A rattling fire of musketry, then silence, then a cheer.
I knew they had surrendered. Well, what if the place were won?
I turned and wandered to my home; my errand had been done.

When Friends would have disowned me as a man of blood and sin,
Friend Scudder spake—you might have heard the falling of a pin—
“God knows His own wise purposes; who’d scan His ways must fail.
Who gave the Israelitish dame the hammer and the nail,
His wrath has fallen on bloody Rahl, on Sisera laid low;
And Reuben Comfort did God’s work. In peace then let him go.”

Loud weeping on the women’s side, and sobs on ours that day;
And no one there gainsaid his words, and no one uttered nay.
The brethren came and pressed my hand before I left the place,
And all the women, as I passed, looked pitying in my face.
So I went forth of man forgiven. I pray that God may be,
When sitting in the latter day, as merciful to me.

_FOLLOWING THE OPERATIONS AT TRENTON._

After the capture of the Hessians at Trenton, the American army,
under the influence of enthusiasm and a bounty of ten dollars, hard
money, to each recruit, filled up rapidly. Washington determined to
re-occupy Trenton and make it the basis of offensive operations.
He recrossed the river on the 30th of December, and soon learned
of the approach of Cornwallis with a large force. The number of
each army was the same; but the British were all well-trained
regulars, while the greater part of the Americans was made up of
raw militia-men. Washington moved to some high ground on the north
side of the Assunpink, and guarded the bridge spanning the stream.
A strong party, under General Greene, had so harassed the enemy
that he did not reach Trenton until evening. He had driven Greene
so close that he got over the bridge with difficulty. There was a
ford above, but this and the bridge were covered by field-pieces.
The British attempted to force the bridge, but were three times
repulsed with loss; and a similar attempt at the ford met with like
results. The action was kept up with cannon and musketry until
after dark, when it ceased, and both parties lit their camp-fires,
and prepared to renew hostilities in the morning.

Cornwallis, confident that Washington could not escape, rested
content. His antagonist knew the inferiority of his troops and
the probable disastrous consequences of a general engagement. To
avoid this, at a council of war it was suggested to march off
at night down the river, and cross to Philadelphia. Washington
preferred to move upon Princeton, where a body of British troops
were stationed, and if possible reach New Brunswick and destroy
the enemy’s stores. There was one difficulty in the way: it was
impossible to move forty pieces of artillery over the surrounding
swamp. At that juncture it began to grow intensely cold, and in two
hours the marshy ground was frozen hard. The army moved in silence,
leaving camp-fires burning, and a small party to make a feint of
intrenching. The British were completely deceived. At morning the
camp-fires were still blazing, but the Americans had disappeared.
While they were endeavoring to find out what route Washington had
taken, they heard the booming of cannon at Princeton.

The Americans took what is known as the Quaker road, which was
new and full of stumps of trees. These impeded their progress
so much that it was about sunrise before they reached the upper
bridge over Stony Brook, near Princeton, and formed in column
near Friends’ Meeting-house. Here they came on a brigade of the
enemy, under Mawhood, two regiments of which were on their way
to join Cornwallis. The latter discovered the Americans, who now
emerged from the woods south of the meeting-house. Mawhood by
a quick movement brought two of his regiments to the bridge at
Worth’s Mills, and crossed just as Mercer, who had been detached
there with a small party, reached it. Both parties tried to get
possession of the high grounds. Mercer reached Clark’s orchard,
and finding the enemy approaching from the heights, sheltered his
riflemen behind a hedge, from which they poured a destructive fire.
The enemy returned the fire and charged, driving the Americans
with the bayonet. They pursued, and when they came to the brow
of the heights, discovered the American force, under Washington,
approaching. The fugitives were re-formed, and a battery, under
Moulder, began to play on Mawhood’s men. An attempt to take this
failed, and Mawhood, seeing a Connecticut regiment advancing,
retreated, leaving his artillery. It was during this affair that
General Mercer received his death-wound.

The broken British managed to escape and joined Cornwallis, now
on the advance. The Americans, pushing on to Princeton, met the
55th regiment, which they routed, and that and the 40th fled to
New Brunswick. A few companies remained in the college, but these,
under a cannonade, surrendered. The bridge over Stony Brook was now
destroyed, just as the van of the British appeared. They forded
the stream, but when at the town were brought up by a single
discharge from a 32-pounder which the British had before left on a
temporary breastwork. This gave them the idea that the Americans
intended to make a stand, and they prepared for battle. After some
delay they threw out reconnoitring parties, and felt their way
cautiously, to discover that Washington was far away on the road to
Millstone with his prisoners and spoils. He destroyed the bridge
at Kingston, and filed off to the left, arriving at Pluckemin that
night. Cornwallis, after repairing the bridge, supposed Washington
had gone to New Brunswick, and pushed on in that direction, to be
disappointed.

_ASSUNPINK AND PRINCETON_

Glorious the day when in arms at Assunpink,
And after at Princeton the Briton we met;
Few in both armies—they’d skirmishes call them,
Now hundreds of thousands in battle are set.
But for the numbers engaged, let me tell you,
Smart brushes they were, and two battles that told;
There ’twas I first drew a bead on a foeman—
I, a mere stripling, not twenty years old.

Tell it? Well, friends, that is just my intention;
There’s nothing a veteran hates and abhors
More than a chance lost to tell his adventures,
Or give you his story of battles and wars.
Nor is it wonder old men are loquacious,
And talk, if you listen, from sun unto sun;
Youth has the power to be up and be doing,
While age can but tell of the deeds it has done.

Ranged for a mile on the banks of Assunpink,
There, southward of Trenton, one morning we lay,
When, with his red-coats all marshalled to meet us,
Cornwallis came fiercely at close of the day—
Driving some scouts who had gone out with Longstreet,
From where they were crossing at Shabbaconk Run—
Trumpets loud blaring, drums beating, flags flying—
Three hours, by the clock, before setting of sun.

Two ways were left them by which to assail us,
And neither was perfectly to their desire—
One was the bridge we controlled by our cannon,
The other the ford that was under our fire.
“Death upon one side, and Dismal on t’other,”
Said Sambo, our cook, as he gazed on our foes:
Cheering and dauntless they marched to the battle,
And, doubtful of choice, both the dangers they chose.

Down at the ford, it was said, that the water
Was reddened with blood from the soldiers who fell:
As for the bridge, where they tried it, their forces
Were beaten with terrible slaughter, as well.
Grape-shot swept causeway, and pattered on water,
And riddled their columns, that broke and gave way;
Thrice they charged boldly, and thrice they retreated;
Then darkness came down, and so ended the fray.

How did I get there? I came from our corn-mill
At noon of the day when the battle begun,
Bringing in flour to the troops under Proctor;
’Twas not very long ere that errand was done.
Up to that time I had never enlisted,
Though Jacob, my brother, had entered with Wayne;
But the fight stirred me; I sent back the horses,
And made up my mind with the rest to remain.

_We_ camped on _our_ side—the south—of Assunpink,
While _they_ bivouacked for the night upon _theirs_;
Both posting sentries and building up watchfires,
With those on both sides talking over affairs.
“Washington’s caught in a trap!” said Cornwallis,
And smiled with a smile that was joyous and grim;
“Fox! but I have him!”—the earl had mistaken;
The fox, by the coming of daylight, had him.

Early that night, when the leaders held council,
Both St. Clair and Reed said our action was clear;
Useless to strike at the van of our foemen—
His force was too strong; we must fall on his rear.
Washington thought so, and bade us replenish
Our watchfires till nearly the dawn of the day;
Setting some more to make feint of intrenching,
While swiftly in darkness the rest moved away.

Marching by Sandtown, and Quaker Bridge crossing,
We passed Stony Creek a full hour before dawn,
Leaving there Mercer with one scant battalion
Our foes to amuse, should they find we were gone;
Then the main force pushed its way into Princeton,
All ready to strike those who dreamed of no blow;
Only a chance that we lost not our labor,
And slipped through our fingers, unknowing, the foe.

Mawhood’s brigade, never feeling its danger,
Had started for Trenton at dawn of the day,
Crossed Stony Creek, after we had gone over,
When Mercer’s weak force they beheld on its way;
Turning contemptuously back to attack it,
They drove it with ease, in disorder ahead—
Firelocks alone were no match for their cannon—
A fight, and then flight, and brave Mercer lay dead.

Murdered, some said, while imploring for quarter—
A dastardly deed, if the thing had been true—
Cruel our foes, but in that thing we wronged them,
And let us in all give the demon his due.
Gallant Hugh Mercer fell sturdily fighting,
So long as his right arm his sabre could wield,
Stretching his enemies bleeding around him,
And then, overpowered, fell prone on the field.

Hearing the firing, we turned and we met them,
Our cannon replying to theirs with a will;
Fiercely with grape and with canister swept them,
And chased them in wrath from the brow of the hill.
Racing and chasing it was into Princeton,
Where, seeking the lore to be taught in that hall,
Red-coats by scores entered college, but stayed not—
We rudely expelled them with powder and ball.

Only a skirmish, you see, though a sharp one—
It did not last over the fourth of an hour;
But ’twas a battle that did us this service—
No more, from that day, had we fear of their power.
Trenton revived us, Assunpink encouraged,
But Princeton gave hope that we held to the last;
Flood-tide had come on the black, sullen water,
And ebb-tide for ever and ever had passed.

Yes! ’twas the turn of the tide in our favor—
A turn of the tide to a haven that bore.
Had Lord Cornwallis crossed over Assunpink
That day we repelled him, our fighting were o’er.
Had he o’ertaken us ere we smote Mawhood,
All torn as we were, it seems certain to me,
I would not chatter to you about battles,
And you and your children would not have been free.

DONALD M’DONALD.

The affair on which this lyric is founded is entirely different
from the attack on the fort at Schoharie by Johnson and Brant.
It was a raid by a party of loyalists and Indians, led by a Tory
partisan, Donald M’Donald. He was an active and relentless leader;
but not so bloody as Walter Butler. He should not be confounded
with the loyalist general of the same name in North Carolina. He
commanded part of the loyalists in the fight near Conewawah during
Sullivan’s expedition.